As mother and daughter retired, Quinney exclaimed, more to himself than to James: "When I think of what I’ve done for them two thankless females!" "What have you done?" asked James. "Slaved for ’em for twenty years! Sweated blood, I have! Thanks to me, they’ve lived in cotton-wool, able to take it easy all the time. Enough o’ that! What you got to say to me—alone? Hey?" "Can’t you guess? Didn’t you overhear just now what I said to Posy? I told her that I thought I could deal with you, and that the time had come to do it." "Deal away, my lad. Pull the cards out o’ yer sleeve. Lay ’em on the table." "My cards, sir, are chairs." "Chairs? You gone potty, too?" "Chairs. The chairs which Mr. Tomlin bought for fifty pounds; the chairs which I ’restored’; the chairs which were done up with old needlework covers taken from other chairs; the chairs which you put up at Christopher’s and bought in after spirited bidding—faked bidding—for nine hundred pounds; the chairs which you sold to Mr. Hunsaker this morning for eleven hundred; the chairs which you ordered me to pack at once. Nice little tale to tell Mr. Hunsaker, when he calls to-morrow! Nice little bit of ’copy’ for the newspapers." We know that this young fellow rehearsed his speeches. He had rehearsed this. It flowed smoothly from his lips. "Blackmail!" gasped Quinney. "I prefer to call it a weapon, sir, which you are forcing me, sorely against my will, to use." "This puts the lid on." "Yes, it does." "I understand. It’s my daughter against your silence, hey? Hold hard! Does she know of this?" "No. Don’t you remember? She asked for information, which I withheld out of respect for you and her. Posy believes you to be scrupulously honest." "I’m damned!" "I fear that you will be, if this story becomes public." "My Posy against your silence. My Posy against my reputation. My Posy against my wife!" He was profoundly moved. James perceived this, and proceeded to follow up his advantage. His tactics, admittedly, were intelligently conceived and carried out. His error—a fundamental one—lay in his ignorance of Quinney’s character. Like Susan, who had been carried away by her maternal emotions; like Posy, who was still in her salad days, he had taken for granted that Quinney did prefer things to persons. "May I put my case this way, sir? As your prospective son-in-law, working hard in and for your interest, do I not present serious claims upon your attention?" Quinney stared at him. This was, indeed, a "plant," skilfully prepared by a rascal and fortune-hunter. He said roughly: "Cut that prospective son-in-law cackle! As yourself, my lad, you do present very serious claims indeed upon my attention." "Have it as you please, Mr. Quinney." "That’s exactly how I mean to have it." "What have you against me, sir?" Quinney had been pacing the room restlessly. He stopped suddenly, opposite James, within two feet of his pale face.